I’m sure nobody in the family will.
My name’s Catherine, but everyone calls me Cathy. I’m 38, and 39 weeks pregnant with baby number two. The baby could come any day now.
My belly stretches so tight I feel like a balloon ready to burst. Every step sends shooting pains down my legs. Sleep?
What’s that? I haven’t seen a full night’s rest in weeks.
We already have Zoey. She’s four, all pigtails and endless questions.
This pregnancy has been different though. Harder, honestly. The doctor says it’s because I’m over 35.
High risk, they call it.
“Cathy, you need to take it easy,” Dr. Smith told me last week. “Rest is crucial now.”
Rest.
Right. Tell that to Alan.
My husband has made it to exactly one ultrasound appointment. One…
out of dozens. While I’ve been to every checkup, every test, and every moment of worry alone.
“I have to work, Cath,” he always says. “Someone has to pay the bills.”
He didn’t even notice.
We arrived at Kelly’s apartment around six. The smell of roast chicken filled the air.
Soft jazz played from the speakers. Candles flickered on the dining table. It was heavenly.
“Happy birthday, son!” Grace, Alan’s mother, hugged him tight.
She’s always been kind to me. She’s more of a mother than my own, really.
“Thanks, Mom. This looks great, Kel.”
***
Dinner started pleasantly enough.
Kelly had made all of Alan’s favorites. Roast chicken with herbs. Mashed potatoes.
Green bean casserole. The birthday cake sat on the counter, chocolate with vanilla frosting.
Zoey chattered about her day at preschool. Grace asked about my pregnancy.
Jake told funny stories from his job at the fire station.
I tried to ignore the constant pressure in my pelvis. My back screamed every time I shifted in my chair. This was Alan’s night.
I wanted it to be special.
Then halfway through the main course, Alan turned to me with this bright smile like he’d just solved world hunger.
“You know what, Cath? After dinner, why don’t you take Zoey home and get her to bed? I’ll stay here with everyone else.
And keep the party going.”
I blinked. “What do you mean?”
His smile got wider and more excited. “Come on, babe!
This is my last chance to really celebrate before the baby comes. I want to drink some beer with Jake. Maybe smoke a cigar on the balcony.
Stay up late like the old days.”
The fork slipped from my fingers and clattered against my plate.
“You want me to leave? And take Zoey home alone?”
“Well, yeah.” Alan shrugged like this was perfectly reasonable. “You’re tired anyway, right?
You’re always grumbling about how tired you are. And someone needs to put Zoey to bed.”
I stared at my husband. This man I’d loved for eight years.
Who I’d built a life with. Who was supposed to be my partner.
“Alan. I’m 39 weeks pregnant.
The baby could come tonight.”
“Oh, come on, Cath. Don’t be dramatic!”
That’s when Grace set down her fork and stood up from her chair. She fixed her son with a look that could freeze fire.
“Alan.” Her voice was deadly calm.
“Would you mind repeating what you just said to your wife?”
“I said…”
“No.” Grace held up one finger. “Word for word. What did you just tell Catherine to do?”
Alan’s face went red.
He looked around the table for support. But found none.
“I asked her to take Zoey home so I could celebrate my birthday with you guys.”
“Your 39 weeks pregnant wife. Who could go into labor at any moment.
You want her to drive home alone with your four-year-old daughter so you can drink beer and smoke cigars.”
When she said it like that, it sounded even worse.
“Mom, it’s not…”
“Sit down, Alan.”
He sat.
Grace walked around the table until she stood behind my chair. Her hands rested gently on my shoulders.
“Catherine is carrying your child. YOUR child, Alan.
She is nine months pregnant, exhausted, and in pain. And instead of taking care of her, you want to send her away so you can party?”
“It’s just one night.”
“One night? What if she goes into labor while you’re drunk here?
What then? She calls an Uber to the hospital while you’re too wasted to drive?”
